


And I Stand (So Tall)

by coffeehousehaunt



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: (in a dream sequence), Because the fandom didn't have a chance to escape 5A, Blood and Gore, Bo's POV, Body Horror, But we learned our lesson between then and 5B, Completely, Drabble Series, F/F, Ignores season 5B, Mental Health Issues, Post-whatever it was Bo and Tamsin were doing in S5, Smut, Suicidal Ideation, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Valkubus - Freeform, angst angst angst, character blindness, s5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeehousehaunt/pseuds/coffeehousehaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles about the not-breakup from Bo's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Sarah Bareilles, "Gravity". I really need to get better at titles.

It’s almost a relief, at first. You don’t have to do anything, really; she does all the talking. All the begging and the crying and the leaving. All you have to do is protest. And then she goes, without being asked. 

And then you’re alone in the house and the candlelight, and you think this place feels like home again. You remember this house. 

She tells you don’t touch her, don’t come after her; but your steps weren’t about to carry you any farther than that. As if anything like that ever kept you from the people you really loved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a double.

She’s a child. It’s all suitcases and Motel 6 and of course you know she’s going to shut down anything you try to say and it’s all very easy to eat leftover Thai afterward (all to yourself, _finally_ ) and tell yourself _You tried, you really did_. This is what you get for sleeping with a teenager. 

At the party, you recognize her just by the back of her head—and you’d know those shoulders in anything—and you’re going to say hello and thank her for coming (even though you shouldn’t have to) and confirm the plan, because _that’s what adults do_ , and there she is drinking like the memory of someone else and mouthing off like she wasn’t begging you to love her the last time you talked. 

_Maybe you should slow down_ , you say, because she can’t hold her liquor quite as well as she used to, and she’d probably be useless drunk; and there’s something in the tiny curl of her lip and the wild _fuck-you_ light in her green eyes that makes heat rush low when she shoulders past you; that makes you lose a step. Almost tugs you around. 

She’s taller than you, you realize.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I don't hate Bo. Really. I just love angst and character blindness.

It took you a few days to even notice; the quiet was bliss. 

No, that’s a lie; you noticed right away. That’s when you turned on Netflix, and when the X-Files came up first in your queue, you switched to YouTube, and then you finally threw some dumb CD in like this isn’t the twenty-first century, and it was one of Kenzi’s mixes. And by “mix”, you mean one of her DJ friends playing the rave circuit burned it especially for her. 

You grabbed the vodka and a double shot glass, and finally you just drank straight from the bottle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 250 words. Of course the porn is the longest part of the fic. Sorry not sorry for the slight break in form.

(It didn’t happen. You reached to catch her shoulder and tell her to stop being so goddamn _childish_ and then the dress was falling into rags in your hands. She hits you like a fist but you want her to hit you _with_ her fist, you want her closed-palm and bareknuckle and she comes close—oh, she comes _close_ —all teeth and her knee between your thighs, your head spinning from the champagne on her tongue clashing with the vodka on yours and you’re almost ready to beg but she slides to her knees and you hate her for it. 

There’s a moment when she’s biting a hickey into your hipbone that nearly makes your knees buckle, and you think the skin under her mouth must be glowing, must be throwing off sparks, and how is it ever going to stop. 

But it didn’t happen; you smoothing down the black leather flat on your skin, back turned on her leaning against the wall, hands braced and head bowed, and she’s shaking like something wounded while you put your hair back up and your dress sticks to your legs slightly so you tug and smoothe it down again. You can’t look at her. You can’t look at her because then she’d be more than a memory, and you wouldn’t be black leather anymore; you’d be that ripped dress like a ruined question, you’d feel her mouth branded on your skin, and you can’t look at the answer, because that isn’t happening.)


	5. Chapter 5

(It didn’t happen. 

You ended up in an alley just off from the Dal. Tamsin’s flushed from the vodka, her breathing’s rough even before her eyes drop to your mouth. It only gets rougher. 

You’re raking your nails down her sides, curving around to the front, hot skin and belt buckle and your mouth begging tongue and teeth against her pulse—when she stiffens. Pushes back. The hell? 

“Bo,” she rasps, and you drop your head against her shoulder and close your fist in her shirt and what _now_? “No. No more.”

You open your eyes, and she means it.)


	6. Chapter 6

Finally, you go to the damn motel yourself to convince her to stop being so fucking ridiculous, and pound on the door. 

“Tamsin, come on! Tamsin—“ 

The overweight fiftysomething guy with a cigarette who opens the door is definitely _not_ Tamsin. You back away, apologizing profusely. The hell? No, he hasn’t seen any tall blondes around here, but if you do, send them his way? 

Sure, but what’s he gonna do, now his balls have retreated—with your help—back inside his body? 

The kid at the desk doesn’t take more than a look: She’s been gone for weeks.


	7. Chapter 7

“Why’s it so important to you, Bo?” Dyson’s voice is soft. He’s giving you a _look_.

“Because—This is _stupid_. I understand why she doesn’t want to be at the house, but I’m not going to kick her out or just let her be _homeless_.” 

“I don’t think that’s your choice to make.” 

What is this, a hostage situation? “You know what I _meant_ , Dyson.” 

He looks down and gives one of those almost-inaudible sighs, like he’s trying to decide how much to tell you. You want to smack it out of him. “She’s pretty broken up about it, Bo.” 

“How was I supposed to know?” Your voice nearly cracks. “She’s not exactly the picket-fence type!” 

“That doesn’t mean she can’t feel anything.” 

“ _I had no idea!_ What the hell was I supposed to do? Read her mind?” 

He squints at you like he doesn’t quite recognize you. “You _know_ Tamsin. She doesn’t make a secret of things like that.” 

“ _She didn’t say anything!_ ” 

His nostrils flare, and you suddenly feel very fragile. “You can’t just expect people to fall in when you want them to! You can’t take their loyalty for granted. People have a _breaking point_.” 

It’s like he just slapped you. Then you think _This again_? It always comes back to his fucking _feelings_. “Well if it sucks so bad, why’d she do it in the first place?” 

You’ve never seen that look on Dyson’s face before. You’re not sure exactly what it is, but your stomach plummets. 

“You should go.” He says, low and quiet. 

You don’t argue.


	8. Chapter 8

“What the hell?” He says as you herd him towards the door. Number three for the night. 

You stop; sigh, force all that simmering irritation down. Not his fault you’re in a terrible mood. “Sorry. Sorry, I’ve just… had a shitty couple days. Thank you. For coming over.” You look back up and manage a little smile. “Drinks on me next time?” 

It seems to make him stop; hell, he might even come _back_. 

You shut the door behind him and check your phone. You’re still hungry. First problem. 

Second problem: You can’t find anyone on your contacts list who you haven’t already ridden dry this week. 

And you’ve got some stallions in your stable. 

You tap Dyson’s contact info and stare at the entry. 

You try; you do. To tap that little icon and—and—

The phone shatters against the wall, and then a chunk of the counter breaks off and shatters on the floor. Your knuckles are bloody, and so is the knife of your right hand and the wrist below that where the counter scraped you raw. 

The first shot glass shatters on the floor; you stomp on it, _daring_ any of the shards to cut through the soles of your boots. 

Your hands shake on the second one. You fill it, and then smash it against the wall. 

One of the cabinet doors, broken. The countertop by the sink, dented. Finally, you take the broken chunk of counter and throw it through the damn window. 

You wish you’d never taken those boards down.


	9. Chapter 9

“You _know_.” 

“Bo…” 

“You’ve known this _whole time_.” 

Dyson sets down his beer. “You don’t get to be mad about this.” 

“I’m not mad!” 

He’s on his feet before you can blink. “Then what is it, huh? She’s my friend, too, Bo. You fucked her over. 

“You’re always walking around telling people that they can’t tell you what to do. You need to accept that people won’t do what you want them to sometimes.” He sighs, and slouches back into the barstool, defeated. “Unless you want to turn into Aife.” He won’t look at you. 

“Wow.” Your hands are numb at your sides. “That’s low, Dyson. By any standard.” 

He shrugs and takes another hit from the bottle. He half-turns his head towards you. “’S also true.” 

“Fine.” You step away from the bar, hold your hands up. “I’ll go find her.” 

“Good luck.” He calls after you. “She’s in her truck.”


	10. Chapter 10

She’ll last a week. Tops. 

You slouch upward so that your mouth meets the lip of the vodka bottle halfway. It’s doing its job—you _might_ actually fall asleep tonight, broken window and destroyed kitchen and everything. 

You’ve seen her sleep—the way her hair falls and her face softens when she’s unconscious. She sprawls out and takes over the entire bed; it’s hard to imagine her sleeping in a truck bed, or a military cot, or down at the station. She won't last. 

She might've, once. But not in this lifetime. 

Still. It’s already been, what—a month?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings on this chapter for: Suicidal ideation, body horror, blood/gore. 
> 
> PSA for: Liquor dreams suck.

(This time, she doesn’t stop. Bites into your breastbone until it cracks, jams her fingers into your ribcage, and pries it apart. 

When she pulls back, her hands coated red, you finally recognize her. 

She cocks her head and smirks. “Remember me?” 

You can’t answer, on account of your chest being laid open like one of Lauren’s dissections, and that smirk just grows wider. 

She leans down and purrs in your ear. “Say my name.” 

She doesn’t need one; she rides in on a whisper and a truck held together by willpower, and she’ll leave however and whenever she decides. She could be a curse or a blessing, and she could give a fuck what it means to you. But she wants to hear you say it. 

_Tamsin_. You’ve been saying it all this time. _Tamsin_. 

She looks down at you and she’s a riddle of spun sunlight and blood-dripping nails with a skull-wide smile, and her eyes look the way whiskey burns. All that’s left of her is smoke and an oil stain on an embankment that doesn’t even remember her name, but here she is, because she’s as timeless as the sky infalling just before a storm. 

And you wonder if there really are Fae that can weigh your soul, and you wish you could ask her, because she’d know. 

She puts her hand inside your chest and squeezes and you think, _Tell me how much it weighs_.)


	12. Chapter 12

Her name is Ash. Ironic; more so because she’s Light Fae. Or at least, her family was. 

Ash is unaligned. 

She’s not the only one, either; _you’re_ not the only one, anymore. 

You should be happy. No, you should be _relieved_. That someone like her can exist. That you’re not the only one. You could never have made Tamsin happy anyways. 

You wouldn’t be able to see it, otherwise; not if you hadn’t seen her give it up. If you hadn’t felt her fingers thread through your hair and her hand curved over the back of your head, how her hips tilt under your mouth and your mind goes white when she comes apart. Not if you hadn’t heard her say _Please. Please, more. Please, love me._

You can’t un-hear it, the low warmth in her voice. Can’t un-see the almost imperceptible softness that flickers over her face looking at Ash across the bar. How that doesn’t stop Tamsin from pulling the trigger, or closing her fist; or how it doesn’t make the darkness around her eyes any less black, any shallower. 

How it makes her more whole. 

You can see it. 

You could’ve made her happy.


End file.
